Thursday, February 4, 2010


This week, I sat in a room with a friend, who may or may not know Christ. We were in a group setting, and she was in an eating disordered frenzy, ranting, hating herself for giving in to ED. As she shared her story, I noticed a cube in her hand that she was rapidly and manically playing with. Her anxiety so powerful that she could not keep her hands still. I was shocked at what she was furiously fidgeting with. She held in her hand a "salvation cube," one of those picture cubes that unfolds to tell the story of the gospel. It is the kind that I used on my mission trip in the Philippines to share the gospel. Here I sat, listening to her story and her hurt, watching her hold the gospel unwittingly in her hands. Here is my letter to this precious princess:

Dear friend,
I can’t claim to know your hurt,
But I feel pain as your express yours.
Tangible anxiety, starved frenzy,
How familiar I am with that hell.
Dear friend,
That cube that you hold in your wretched hands,
Folding, refolding, fidgeting furiously,
That is the key, dancing between your fingertips,
Splattered with your honest tears,
That puzzle somehow is the answer,
You pain was carried upon that CROSS,
The one that you so relentlessly exhaust.
You hold the Savior of the universe, the gospel.
Dear friend,
Do you know? Have you heard?
You hold in your hands the way, truth, and life.
He can heal your deepest hurt,
Unearth and place His salve your most buried pain.
He can sustain you…
And me…
That image, icon, story,
That you unremittingly open, close, and begin again,
Is also the ONE that I have forgotten, gathering cobwebs on the shelf of my heart.
Friend, you may be closer to Him than I am.
Your brokenness, raw and real,
Is what He seeks.
Your emptiness and desperation will drive you to your knees,
At His feet.
So hold fast to that truth, dear precious friend.
It is your Salvation.
Thank you for reminding me of my Salvation.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010


Who knew healing would hurt so bad?
Who knew getting better would make me so sad?
Years of not feeling pile up like mounds of snow,
Ages of thawing and so much more to go.
Who knew right would feel so wrong?
It makes sense, considering wrong was right for so long.
Re-defining life means stirring up the put.
Though it is ultimately best, I would rather not.
The paradox of descent to rise above,
Joins with the death that gives birth to love.

Monday, February 1, 2010

True Vision

The looking glass,
What a strange invention,
More so than a sea of faces,
The mirror captures our attention.
Accurate reflection?
I plead no,
Yet look all the more intensely.
Reflecting phantom images,
Mere perceptions,
Distorted colors, shapes, sizes, contours.
Why gaze at an imitation?
There is a reason we can’t look ourselves (our real selves) in the face.
There is a reason why we can’t stand back to admire or distain.
My eyes were never meant to fall on my face, my body, myself.
So I unglue my eyes from the reflective SURFACE to face…
And I finally find true vision.

Sunday, January 31, 2010


Somewhere between the slimy pit and the solid ground,
Somewhere between depression and joy,
Somewhere between crippling anxiety and perfect peace,
Somewhere between curses and blessings,
Somewhere between bondage and freedom,
Somewhere between sick and healthy,
Somewhere between despair and hope,
Somewhere between doubts and belief,
Somewhere between starving and nourished,
Somewhere between comfort and agony,
Somewhere in the grays...
Somehow, I am not all or nothing.
I am not something or everything.
I am not black or white,
There is this middle ground,
This in between,
This has been and not yet,
This changing and becoming,
This chrysalis,
Semi-formed, tissue-paper wings.
Slowly, becoming,
And there is grace for this middle ground.

Friday, January 29, 2010

The Symptom

Oh skinny vanilla latte,
You claim to bring satisfaction with less,
But you only give less with longing.
Oh skinny jeans,
You claim to slim the frame,
But you only “look good” on those who are without curves.
Oh skinny models,
You claim, with your sunken cheeks,
Pre-adolescent stalks for legs,
Painful collar bones,shoulder blades and spines,
To be role models for youth,
But you only advertise death.
Your ashen billboards scream,
“Our culture is teaching its women to kill themselves.”
Skinny, you cry “broken.”
You cry “numb!”
You cry “extreme!”
You cry, “fake!”
You cry, “afraid!”
You cry, “deception!”
You cry, “bondage!”
You cry, “restriction!”
You cry, “SEE ME!”
And as you fade, we see you for who you are.
You are not so beautiful after all.